Water, Earth, Wind, Fire
by April29Roses
Summary: Merlin struggles with grief and despair as he waits for Arthur. What is the meaning of eternity? Can any heart bear the price of memories? Is there a remedy for the poison of anger? What mystery of hope lies in the veil of light?
1. Chapter 1

Water

As Merlin stood by the endlessly surging ocean, the years flooded past him. It was a torrent of memories, roiling and tumultuous, the moments of his life played out in flashing colors and images, a whitewater of terror made of his own and Arthur's fearful destiny. Merlin had been alone for many a long immortal year. The wind stirred his dark hair, the scent of the ocean filled his lungs, touching his face with a ghost of salt mist. He hunched his thin shoulders and shivered in the cold touch of the ocean spray. The moon shimmered on the waves that surged on the shores of the long lost kindom of Gedref. It had another name now, but the trees still whispered under the moonlight. Here, close to the dark call of the water, he felt as if all that he loved still existed. It was only beyond his sight, lost somewhere in the velvet darkness and the boom of the surf.

Was it possible, thought Merlin, that Mithian's laughter echoed still in the corridors of her seaside towers, that the unicorn yet moved, liquid as seafoam, in the moonlight through the dark forests behind him? Was it not possible that Arthur still commanded, still ruled from the white towers of Camelot? Could it not be true that somewhere Arthur still fought with a magical sword as bright as the moonlight on the sea below him? On a night such as this, the past seemed more immediate, as if he could reach out and find the world of his youth with only a flare of his golden eyes.

Cursing his foolishness he still wished the feeling was true. Merlin refused the sting of tears as he looked out over the water. Long practice made it easy to turn away from the familiar pain of Arthur's absence. He wished for the sweet easy places of his long ago youth. For despite his hungering recall, all had been changed by the relentless passage of the years. The land had changed as other kings came and went, and the chain of years passed over the place where he was born. Nothing remained. But Merlin still longed for the clear calm streams of Ealdor, where he had played and plotted with Will, for the special spot in the river where he always went to draw water for his mother. He had been innocent then, filled with relentless energy and curiosity of childhood. The very water had thrummed with life as he touched it. Without error, he knew where the water was cleanest and sweetest, and he would bring his mother the pail of water and her smile would erase the sweat and the heat of the day like a rush of the cool water he had carried in his bucket. But all those things, even his mother's sweet smile, were gone, carried away by the relentless tides of the ocean of time.

Merlin had come to accept the eternal loss that was part of any mortal friendship. His heart still greived for those who had been with him on the beginning of the journey. He had forged a peace with the tender ghosts of Guinevere and Gaius, with his memories of Lancelot and Elyan. with the tragic death of Gawaine, and the noble end of Percival and Leon. He treasured the friends he had made and lost, the adventures and the inventions of the long years of his exile, the long span of his time without Arthur. So many faces, so many names.

But when he thought of his king, there was no peace. There was only the knowledge of his failure, of his inability to change the destiny that had stalked his cabbage headeded, arrogant, noble, true-hearted prince. His king, who at the end of all things, had been the other side of his soul.

Here by the ocean,in the familiar enduring dark of the sea, he recalled their first adventure in Gedref, when Arthur had killed the unicorn, cursing Camelot. He could still see Arthur's fierce blue eyes as he ignored Merlin's shouted warning and killed the unicorn. He recalled the noble triumphant glint in his eyes as Arthur boldly drank the silver cup of his challenge that would mend the death of the magical creature. Like a forshadowing of tragedy, he remembered the tears that had burned his eyes as he had shook Arthur's limp form as he fell, poisoned, to the wet stones. His stomach seized painfully with the memory of his horror in that moment. He had failed Arthur. The pain paled in contrast to the most terrible memory of all, for inevitably, he remembered Camlann and the shores of pain of it shook him, drowning him in the endless cold dark. He took a deep breath of the sea air, trying to calm the pain that tore at his soul.

Merlin knew the true meaning of time, the true meaning of eternity. The long passage of the years was the illusion; the moments that defined one's destiny stood immutable, existing forever. Whether for joy or sorrow, whether for love or for despair, there were events that existed outside of time. The agony of Arthur's death was eternal in his soul. It was always in the present, it echoed in the past, it shimmered like a wraith in the future. That moment in time stood unchanging, at the center of his heart. That was the meaning of eternity.

Moving quickly, Merlin shrugged out of his clothes and plunged into the water, movinginto the cold, lunging upwards as he swam. Floating on his back, the stars above him filled him with a sense of peace, tranquilizing the struggling pain that was his heart. These silent stars were his sole companions through the years. Their movements so slow, he alone could appreciate their endless dance. They had always comforted him. He had loved the stories about the shapes of heroes set in the stars, he loved their slow movement with the seasons and their even subtler movement with the years. An astronomer friend had explained to him once, that the light of the stars had left it's origin many years before, and only now could it be perceived as the light of that long ago moment reached the earth. Somewhere then, Arthur was alive in this moment, and only now was the moment perceptible to him. It gave him a strange sense of companionship. It remained enough a mystery that his soul deep grief did not stir, but accepted the balm of this one comfort. Merlin loved the sea. No one could see his tears. Not even he himself.

It was enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Earth

In the Valley of the Fallen Kings, not far from where the crystal cave lay hidden, was another cave, its opening hidden by underbrush and creeping vines. No one noticed the perfect hex that guarded the entrance from prying eyes, for that was it's function. No animal, small or large, disturbed the darkness. No dust coated the rough table and chair. The blanket that covered the rough pallet in the corner was fresh and clean, although no human hand had touched it in many a long season. A light gleamed gold in the darkness and a presence moved in the silence.

Merlin touched the cover of Gaius' spell book, his floating handfire illuminating the ancient text with a glow of umber. He touched it once, with a tenderness wrought in equal parts of pain and joy. Such was the price of memories.

With a gesture and the briefest surge of gold, the darkness was dispelled. Haphazard shelves held ancient bottles, books written by hand mixed with rare alembics and jars of common herbs.. There was a heavily carved cloths press, as tall as Merlin himself, and a side table wtih hooks for keys. A small carved dragon stood on a ledge, it's surface burnished by the oil of touch alone. Merlin drew his hand over his face roughly, defending himself from the surge of sentiment that convulsed his throat and stung his eyes. The world had moved on and only in this tender dark, he kept the last remnants of his life in Camelot.

Long ago, he had learned to let go of things and even of people, as the relentless years had passed over him. But with a child's fierce love, he could not release these last few items of the life he had led, of the days when he believed that he could mold destiny to his wish, to his deepest need. He moved to the mouth of the cave where the twilight cast long amber shadows though the green. The shadows were harsh. The birds wheeled and soared as they settled for the night, seeking out the trees and bushes and twittering themselves into silence. Small hunters paused as they moved past the cave's golden light of the sun faded into the shadow, and yet Merlin did not move, except to wrap his blue woolen jacket tighter across his chest. Here, close in the darkness of the haunted forest the warlock stood and remembered.

As the years had passed, it seemed that everyone had forgotten the king, whose reign had flowered , golden and full of promise, for a handful of years. But there had been no time of Albion, and Arthur's legend had been erased by the grey dust of years. So much had been forgotten, but Merlin's heart was nothing, if not loyal, so the circle of the natural year brought a round of memories, and he grew familiar with the seasons of his grief.

Year upon year, with the first stirrings of spring, he would sense the oncoming storm of the anniversary of Arthur's death. As the earth warmed and the snow melted, grief rumbled like thunder in the distance. By the time the peaceful orchards of Camelot were bright seas of blossom, rich with the promise of summer fruit, Merlin's heart was bare, a field of stone and ash. Later, when the summer heat was beginning, he would recall his first day in Camelot. He saw the colors still, brilliant as his hopes on that day. He recalled the milling crowds in the lower town, the execution and the screams of the witch as her son died and Uther's merciless glare. Then there was his meeting with the arrogant prat who seemed to think it amusing to terrify his servant. Silently, unnoticed, destiny had gripped them that day.

In the bright golden fall, when all of Camelot rioted with the color and pageantry of the joust and the melee, he felt again the familiar weight of Arthur's mail in his arms. In his mind's eye he adjusted the king's armor, tweaking the straps and metal buckles with expert speed and Arthur's blue glance was both confident and fearless. Even now, it brought Merlin a surge of pride that no one else had ever been permitted to attend Arthur before a battle or a joust. It was a matter of trust, a matter of friendship. Then, every year in the dark of winter, when the moon was pale as bone, and frost rimed the ruined windows of Camelot, he would count another year that the light had gone from his life.

If the passage of the seasons brought a round of memories, along with the pain, it also brought his deepest solace. There, still bright and untarnished by the years, were the snatches of banter, the cheery morning greetings laced with the crash of Arthur's unerring aim. He remembered adventures, rich with humor and danger, and hopeless quests that ended in his own silent triumph and a hug from Gaius. He recalled the dark days, when only his king's hollow eyes had called from him a wisdom that had carried the day. He heard Arthur's voice, ringing out in pride on the day of his coronation. He remembered the comfortable silence of companionship when the king could not bear the weight of his office and only Merlin's endless prattle distracted him from the boredom of the trail, or the petty machinations of his courtiers.

In the bright images of his memory, Merlin heard Arthur call his name a thousand times. He heard Arthur say his name in tones of annoyance, in anger, in teasing words,in laughter, in supercilious arrogance. He remembered the way his prince had called out for him when he delirious with fever; the way he hissed his name when he was frightened or in pain. It was those tones that Merlin remembered best for Arthur had revealed his heart to few. But then, inevitably, he would remember Arthur's last words and his heart would begin to bleed, and there in the dark of the forest, the weight of years crushed Merlin to his knees as he clutched his chest with the mortal ache of despair. He knew well the seasons of his grief, for they were written in the earth, in the passage of the seasons.

Grief and love warred eternal, or perhaps they were all the same. He no longer cared. His darkest fear had materialized into a hell that burned always in Merlin's faithful heart. His memories were a balance, a dance of beauty and blood, and now the moonlight cast shadows on the forest floor, inticate as the flowing lines of Celtic script. Runes that only he coud understand. The warlock struggled to his feet. He waited to hear his name again, in tones that only he could bear to remember. Such was the price of memories.

It was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N I thank each and every one of you for reading my story and I am most thankful for the kind comments in my reviews. I had not hoped for such a wonderful response!

Wind

No one can see the wind. It moves invisible over the earth, and only the movement of all that bows to it's will reveals its prescence. The leaves sing with the silent voice of the air' the water dances to it's unheard melody. No one can deny it's power, neither the stones of the eternal land, nor the birds who sing it's praises at dawn.

Creature of the air, Kilgarrah had surged high with a rush, lifting the rider from his back with the power of wings as he rode the wind. With fear in his throat,and exhilaration in his heart, Merlin had soared, whooping with amazement, drunk with the heady thrill of youth, his heart beating as one with his companion. But the dragon was gone. His kind existed only in books and stories for children; the mighty rush of his passing invisible as memory, as empty as a promise, like the wind.

Merlin could not forget. The warlock, who in his youth could not navigate the world of magic without the advice of his cryptic kin, could no longer find forgiveness in his heart. Lost in the aftermath of Camlann, desolate in his sorrow, alone in the darkness, the meaning of Kilgarrah's words came clear and Merlin's anger grew. He had the time to review and think of all the things that had passed between the ancient creature of magic and himself. He puzzled over the dragon's words, searching his heart for the truth and only in hindsight could he begin to grasp what the beast had really been saying. He began to see that Kilgarrah had herded him towards an unimaginable end, towards Arthur's death, all the while insisting that his role was to protect the prince, who had become his life. He began to resent the warnings given in words so vague, that he could not have begun to understand the real meaning of the words. He realized that Kilgarrah had always known the terrible price Merlin would pay for the future, for it had been the root of the unspoken secret in his eyes. And while he professed to care for the young warlock,his every move had moved Merlin into this bleak hell. He saw that the dragon had betrayed the naive and gallant boy that he had been.

Deep in his scarred soul, he burned when he remembered the words of destiny. The Once and Fuure King and the time of Albion. At so many points, he could have walked away or he could have followed the promptings of his heart. A thousand, thousand times he had despaired over his decision to take the middle road between his own heart and the dragon's terrible pragmatism. In retrospect he agonized over the times, he had rejected the dragon's admonition to kill Morgana, and to end the life of Mordred. He imagined their blood, taking the place of Arthur's and remorse ate at his soul. His rage at his indecision and hesitation would burn in one lightning strike after another on those dark and windy nights. But just as often, he regretted his decision to leave Morgana in the dark about their magic, to leave Mordred to the mercy of the world, when he had been no more than a lost child. And then, broken by his guilt, his heart would scream as it burned in the tornado of depression that blinded him to the world for months at a time.

Slow and terrible, his anger built over the years. As surely as anger had built in Kilgarrrah, confined and betrayed in the dark by Uther and his madness, Merlin's anger had grown. He realized that he had been manipulated into this terrible circle of fate by the dragon he had trusted. He tried to remember how anger had slowly twisted and ruined Morgana, crippling her until she knew nothing but vengeance. He reminded himself of how anger had broken Mordred in the instant of Kara's death, leaving only the reality of his sword. He turned from his anger again and again as the years passed. He tried to remember Arthur's voice insisting that he remain who he was. He fought long and relentlessly against the storm of his anger, but the injustice of Arthur's fate sang to him, as once the voice of the dragon had haunted his dreams. And in the end, he could no more resist it's power, than he could have refused Kilgarrah's first call.

Samhain found Merlin by the lake of Avalon. Even now, in the modern world , the subtle magic of the Sidhe made the lake seem less noticeable, above scrutiny of all the passersby, for it had always been there. Merlin himself had learned that trick long ago, when he had walked by the side of his king. He had formed a strange relationship with the pool of water set in a circle of grassy sedge. He both hated and loved it's tranquil presence, it's unchanging beauty. It was comfort, it was pain, it was memories. It was here that he had parted with those he had loved the most. Here they had passed from his sight in a flare of gold. Freya. Lancelot. Arthur. Here the veil was present always and the air itself surged through him as the moon rose, cold and white, over the rippling water. The island in the lake was obscured by the a roiling fog, but the warlock could feel it's prescence.

Carefully, Merlin raised his hands, palms outward, and he swept the layers of the veil aside, even as he felt the energy in them plummet. Only the merest division remained, a gossamer web of shimmering power, and within him, from the dark maelstrom of his lonliness and his anger, Merlin called. He called to the spirits he had loved at the begining of his journey. It no longer mattered who answered, for he knew he would treasure even the merest glimpse, the tiniest glint of recognition in a familiar face. Even Mordred. Even Morgana. He never hoped it could be Arthur. The warlock found his balancing point in the power that shimmered whitely now over the water. The wind filled him with the energy of the breathing earth. From the deepening curls of fog, emerged a face whiter than the moonlight.

Aithusa. Crippled almost beyond recognition, twisted and stunted, unable to utter a single word but to moan her pain, the ghost of the dragon he had called forth in joy, looked into his eyes once more. He felt again the depth of his failure as he gazed into the hollow abyss between them, for it echoed his failure to protect Arthur. All he had begun in hope had come to this.

He whispered the dragon's name on the wind that moved between them. The creature's eyes were blue still, burning with the azure heat at the heart of a flame. Facing the last of his kin, Merlin was beyond words, letting his anger and pain flood him in a torrent of silent power, and at the same instant, he felt the pain strike him, shocking as an arrow, as Aithusa opened her heart as well. Anger at the fate that had moved them to this point; anger for the hope that once had filled their hearts tortured them both with a desperate sense of injustice and despair. Anger at Kilgarrah, who had stood helpless at the hand of fate, and had issued only enough information to tempt them to their doom.

Love for Morgana who existed like a living image in the white dragon's heart overwhelmed Merlin, torturing him with the memory of his own silent love for her. She had been Aithusa's only comfort in the endless pain of the pit, her mistress who was both valiant and terrified, haunted by love and betrayal, beautiful as the edge of a knife. Morgana.

Arthur. Bold and arrogant, pure of heart as few could understand. His sword echoed through time, ringing with thunder, burning bright with the dragon's immortal burnishing, where it lay sunk in the dark waters of Avalon. The dream of a free world, where the magic of the Old Religion would be accepted echoed like a helpless scream. Love and tragedy drew their magic closer. Merlin and Aithusa joined their pain in the echoes of the wind, drawing from their soul a single note of awful and holy power.

Forgiveness.

Mercy.

So it is that grace is written forever in the winds of time. None can see the wind, but none can deny it's power.

It was enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Fire

The fires of grief had come to stalk Emrys once more.

It would strike suddenly, like a blast of a dragon; leaving his heart stunned and torn, his landscape scorched and smoldering, breathless. He became adept at holding it in, turning his heart from the abyss, and wrenching himself back into the moment before him. Deep in his heart, in his still smouldering ruin of a heart, he buried it, until the pain was no more than a ghost, an echo of a cry. It would haunt his nights later; for grief, like true love, cannot be denied.

It was the sudden ferocity of these bouts of grief that shook Merlin to his core. In those first few days and weeks after Arthur's 's death, the pain had been unrelenting, blinding in it's intensity. He had died that day as well, though his heart did not grow silent along with Arthur's. Even now he did not truly understand what he had become in that eternal moment. But as the days turned to weeks, the months to years, the years to centuries, the pain had not lessened but changed in a subtle, sad way. What was unbearable, became inescapeable: it became his life.

It was easy to say that in losing Arthur, Merlin had lost a piece of himself. Those who knew and loved Merlin in his youth, knew that the truth was much darker and more profound than those words could convey. Something essential to his being was gone and no amount of time could heal the emptiness. The warlock had disappeared after Arthur's death; half mad with grief he had been glimpsed in the forests near Camelot. It was only weeks later, Percival and Leon had found him, unresponsive, dehydrated and half-starved in the charcoaler's hut. As soon as he recovered his strength, he had left again, much to Gaius' and all of Camelot's dismay. There was no hiding the loss that was now etched into a deep stillness in his eyes. There was a silence in his face that seemed to be almost regal, to those who did not know him. But to those who had known Merlin when he had served Arthur, it was the stoic mask of a singular friend. The change was in a certain random, bitter smile that touched his face at the oddest of times. It was in the inhaled breath that held back a retort to a prat whose voice echoed only in his heart. The change was in his piercing glance that seemed to see more clearly than ever, the suffering of the world. It was in a sudden quiet movement that clenched Merlin tighter than a fist, until he could work through the moment. But there were none now, who had known him in those long ago days, and there were none now who was familiar with any of these subtle signs, for he was alone.

For Merlin, the change was more elemental and difficult to explain. He found only weak metaphors to describe what had happened. When Arthur died everything in his life changed, but everyone, even Camelot, hummed on with an impossible normalcy, he could not understand. It was as if all the color had leached suddenly from his life, leaving everything around him intrinsicly the same, but changed forever into terrible shades of grey. In the grim, flat light of this new reality, it was as if his magic flared to his will but the world no longer recognized it's power. Merlin was rendered useless, his words incomprehensible. It was as if he could think and speak, just as before, but no one truly understood his words and no one noticed, not even Gaius. Merlin went on in his new life,because all life, even this bleak, changed life, was precious. There was no other choice that would have satisfied Arthur. The years passed into ash, the centuries into embers. Merlin knew his grief in the passage of the seasons, and in the endless circle of brilliant, torturous memories of a time when hope and lies were his daily bread.

So these repeated attacks of immediate, ferocious despair, alarmed Merlin more than he could admit. He felt as if his heart was bleeding, just as it had on that terrible day, now so long ago. How could it hurt like this after so many years? But then again, how could it not? He was at a loss to explain his feelings.

After days of dogged repression, the lurking sorrow had overpowered him in the night. When he moved in his convulsive sadness, unable to deny the pain any longer, he knew where he had to go. Just as he had been driven down into the the darkness beneath Camelot by the call of the dragon and his own birthright, so he was drawn to the ruins of the place that had driven him to his endless fate. Only the white ruins of the towers of Camelot could understand his pain. Only there would the sweet ghosts of his youth offer him the balm of their presence.

Wildflowers grew in the ruined courtyard. The moon was low in the western sky and the night fading as Merlin walked by memory through the ruins of the place where it had all begun. He climbed an outcropping of stone that led to the spot where once wooden doors had stood, at the opening of Camelot's throne room. The stones were familar beneath his hands and his feet. He smiled as he recalled mopping these very stones day after day, when Arthur had seen fit to punish him. His knees ached to this day. Here he had lived, here was his home. It was a relief to find this touchstone, this eye in the storm of fire that consumed his heart. It was a blessing to breathe. Here in the silent company of this place he could let go the pain that had burdened him.

The pre-dawn air was cold and damp, the sky clear, the stars brilliant. Pale, thin clouds scudded across the horizon. Merlin exhaled slowly, taking in the blessed quiet of the the silent stones. He breathed in the last of the night, and slowly, carefully, relaxed his hold on his heart. Immediately, his aching sorrow rose like a spear of fire, exploding in his chest, choking him. The terrible loop of memories had begun. Now he had no choice but to watch the nightmare of his memory until the horrific end, until Arthur thanked him.

Resigned and without shame, Merlin fell to his knees and his tears burned. Sparking gold as they touched the earth, they fell. The magic flowed through the dark land, nourishing the soil, drawing energy up into the night through the green fuse of the plants. Air moved over the land, fragrant with magic, whipping quickly into a maelstrom of wind surrounding the lone figure huddled on the white stones. The golden shimmer of power surged like fire, alive and purposeful, licking at the edges of reality as the warlock loosed his agony into the ground, into the stones that had been his home.

Merlin heaved weakly, his face still wet with tears, his throat on fire, his heart transfixed. The palest of dawns was creeping along the horizon. The tender color grew bright, spiraling into sorcerous gold and impossible lavenders. The birds were singing wildly, the undisciplined song rising like a tide of hope as the darkness faded and the morning began. Merlin's breath caught in his throat. There was magic here. It was tenuous but momentous, familiar in a way he hardly dared to remember. The colors shot into the sky. Pale rays of light shot out from the clouds, limned in golden light. It was as if the fragile dawn was a pathway between the worlds, a veil of light between the living and the dead, between despair and hope. He felt as if, lost in the mounting colors, a path was opening what had long been closed, raising what was broken and left in the ashes. Could this be the moment,he asked himself. His heart raged wildly in his chest.

Suddenly Merlin understood. The pain, the terrible agonizing sense of loss was his own heart trying to speak to him. Now he saw the pain was the dark side of his connection to Arthur, the binding that held their destiny together, even now. Along with his realization, he let the sorrow fill him, welcoming the pain and even the choking tears. For there in the darkness, was the terrible promise that drove their fate, the promise he hardly dared to remember. The early sun blazed on Merlin's face, gilding his hair and eyes brighter than gold. He closed his eyes, flooded with memories, and opened them to a new day.

"Hello, old friend," said Arthur softly, and Merlin smiled. There was no need for words, for now his friend stood beside him. Merlin's heart blazed up in wonder; he suddenly knew that his hands directed the power of his magic, his words had meaning, and Arthur's eyes were blue, a color so brilliant it filled Merlin with unreasoning hope. Against all logic, in spite of anger and lonliness and unendurable memories, the time had come. There in the veil of light, in the momentary magical light of dawn, they stood together once more, side by side, courage and magic, king and servant, friends and brothers. It was enough.

Surely, it was enough.

A/N: "He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." Aesychlus

Thank you all, who have read and/or commented on this, my first fan fiction for Merlin. I am more grateful than you know for your support and encouragement.


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